


Bonus Bulge

by Janice_Lester



Category: Star Trek RPF
Genre: M/M, Pinto, Tentacle Sex, Tentacles, unauthorized body modification
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-20
Updated: 2012-03-20
Packaged: 2017-11-26 13:56:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/651208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Janice_Lester/pseuds/Janice_Lester
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chris Pine grows tentacles. Then things get interesting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bonus Bulge

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by the charming [](http://emmessann.livejournal.com/profile)[**emmessann**](http://emmessann.livejournal.com/). Features unauthorised body modification (addition of tentacles), and some discussion of unpleasant medical procedures. Features consensual tentacle sex. Features some inappropriate flippancy around issues of sexual orientation and identity. Betrays an assumption I probably should have questioned, that a man like Chris would tend to take a problem like this to medical professionals of his own sex if given the choice. Line randomly lifted from _Hamlet_ is randomly lifted from _Hamlet_. Thanks to various members of my flist, particularly [](http://tasmin-dvelnahr.livejournal.com/profile)[**tasmin_dvelnahr**](http://tasmin-dvelnahr.livejournal.com/) and [](http://the-deep-magic.livejournal.com/profile)[the_deep_magic](http://the-deep-magic.livejournal.com/), for advice about what the initial medical attitude to Chris's complaint might be.

Afterwards, Chris never consciously remembers the weird kid he bumped into on the Universal lot while waiting for his second, more productive, reading for Kirk. He dreams about her sometimes, though, about the strange way she moved, as if her skin didn’t quite fit her. As if she was walking around in a body she hadn’t been born into. And how her grin had shown too many teeth as she reached out, that odd crackle of not-quite-electricity as she’d stood on tiptoes to run the back of her hand down his cheek.

“Uh, I have somewhere to be,” he’d said, hoping he wasn’t about to get asked out by this awkward teenager who’d probably got herself ‘accidentally’ separated from the studio tour.

“That’s okay,” she’d said, still grinning. “You’ll do just fine.”

It was only as he was walking away, searching in his bag for his phone so he could triple-check where he was meant to be, that it had occurred to Chris that she hadn’t been reassuring him that the audition would go well. She couldn't possibly have known about that…

***

“Tenderness?” Chris’s doctor says, prodding at the small lump to one side of his sac. He seems to be taking this a lot more seriously now that Chris is back for a second visit. The first time he just said something about warts, boils, and sebaceous cysts, and waiting to see if they healed with time and this handy mint-scented ointment.

“Some. Mainly it’s itchy?” He’s not sure that’s exactly the word he wants. It isn’t pleasant, when he scratches them, so is it really an _itch_? It has a tingly quality to it, like… like something he can’t quite name.

“Hmm. And the other one too?”

Chris shrugs. “They seem to be a matched pair, really.”

The doc prods the other side too. “I think we’d better do a biopsy. I’ll remove a sample with a needle and send it to the lab.”

Dread swamps Chris, complete and utter, monsters-under-the-bed type, unreasoning dread.

“It’ll only require local anaesthetic,” the doc goes on. “And I’ll need my hand back.”

Chris unclenches his thighs with an effort, releases the doc’s gloved hand. It’s a while before Chris can stop wincing, though.

Shaping words with his suddenly dry mouth takes an effort. “Uh, can I think about it?”

The doctor gives him a look that says he clearly heard the emphatic “no fucking way” beneath the frantic hedging.

***

The second doctor wants to try removing his “warts” with liquid nitrogen. The thought makes Chris strangely twitchy, and he decides instantly that getting a third opinion is Very, Very Important. And it’s not like he can’t afford it, right? He got the job, and while he’s too superstitious to go talking about Big Breaks, a three-movie deal to play Captain Kirk does represent some definite career security for the next few years.

The third doctor eyes the lumps, rather larger and redder now, with a dubious expression. Starts talking about how much safer it’d be, if they are malignant, if he just books Chris in to have ‘em removed and they send the things down to the lab for examination after. Chris swallows hard, now feeling _very_ damn protective of his nuts, even if they _are_ , um, accompanied by… something weird.

“Er, I’d rather avoid surgery in the genital area unless it’s definitely necessary,” Chris manages, with only a faint squeak in his voice from the sheer painfulness of the whole idea.

“And I’d rather avoid unnecessary funerals,” the doc says.

Clearly, they are not going to see eye to eye on this.

Chris apologises sincerely and at length to his testicles once they’ve made their escape back to Château Pine. He also declares a moratorium on doctors unless things change in freaky ways. Ways that are freakier than the biopsy suggestion.

***

Things, um, change. Pretty quickly. The lumps… open, and there are…

Yeah. He swallows hard and gets on the phone to Cedars-Sinai.

***

“I don’t know what to say,” Chris’s latest world-renowned doctor says, stroking his silvery beard, continuing to gaze at Chris as if he is the most academically interesting thing _ever_. “I’ve run every obvious test, and a dozen that are merely long shots. And I can’t give you any definite answers. Not yet, anyway. But my best guess is that your DNA has been rewritten by some kind of retrovirus which—apart from, obviously, giving you… extra appendages—seems to be doing you no particular harm.”

“Extra appendages,” Chris repeats. But it doesn’t sound any less weird when you say it more formally. “Dude, I’ve grown _tentacles_.” The brand new Captain Kirk has fucking _tentacles_.

Super Genius Doctor has moved on to polishing his spectacles unnecessarily. “Yes. Yes. Intriguing, isn’t it?”

 _Well, that’s one word for it._ “And? Can you—” It takes serious force of will to say it, even now when the alternative is so—ugh. Like part of him still doesn’t want to consider the notion. “Can you remove them?”

Distinguished Doctor Guy frowns. “I wouldn’t advise it. Not yet, at any rate. Not until we understand this a bit better. Perhaps then we can reverse the process, rather than subjecting you to what will likely be major surgery with a high probability of scarring—” Chris crosses his legs protectively “—and more serious complications. In the meantime, I would like your permission to make you the subject—anonymously, of course—of a scholarly article. That will introduce the problem to the medical fraternity, and many heads, as you know, are better than one…”

***

Chris’s tentacles continue to grow thicker and longer and stronger. At first, they can’t really do anything useful. But Chris is patient, and motivated to practice, and after a while he finds he can stretch one out to grab the TV remote. You know, if he’s sitting naked on the couch and the remote hasn’t fallen more than, like, ten inches away. So perhaps it’s not all that useful a trick after all. He’s absurdly proud of his little guys all the same.

He works on it. When he’s sitting around watching Letterman and doing his dumbbell curls, he gives his tentacles little weights to hold so they can attempt to bulk up too. First it’s remote controls, which are fairly light but also a bit slippery and rather wide. But he’s working his way gradually up towards heavier items. Like soda cans. Water bottles. _Useful_ things. Not that it’s a skill he’ll ever be able to put into practice outside the privacy of his own home, of course. But even just at home, it’s kind of a cool trick. And he’s constantly gaining finer control of his tentacles, better aim. It’s taking less mental oomph to make them do his bidding. They’re increasingly feeling like natural parts of his body, as if they’ve always been there.

His next focus will be buttons and zippers, because if he can reach the stage where he can slip out a tentacle to open and pull down his pants, man, the amazingness that will then become possible! He’ll be able to pee while eating, with no attendant hygiene problems because his hands will be free to hold his sandwich or whatever while his tentacles take care of the undressing and penis holding/shaking roles! He’ll be an estimated twenty percent faster getting dressed and undressed! He’ll… Well, there’s bound to be all kinds of applications of these new superpowers, and he’ll merrily discover them as he goes along. _Magic_.

***

It’s a couple of months after the onset of “symptoms” before Chris’s reptile brain gets the urge to find out whether these new appendages of his are good for, well, you know, _sex_. But he doesn’t want to freak anyone out or anything. So he just kinda… yeah…

It’s a weird feeling, unfurling the full length of one tentacle from its weird swollen pouch to one side of his nutsack, the muscles inside its smooth length wobbly but obedient. But it’s an even weirder feeling pushing it, with the aid of the natural slick stuff that keeps it moist and cosy in the said pouch, into his asshole.

And when he says “weird”, he means _awesome._ As in, for the first few seconds he can’t even fucking _breathe_ , it’s that arresting a sensation. And right after that, he’s panting and his dick’s hard and his balls are drawing up and it’s _intense_. Like, the sensation in the tentacle tip is pretty great, sort of like when someone sucks on your tongue, in the good way not the disgusting way. But the sensation in his ass? Well, it’s not entirely pleasant but it _is_ entirely awesome, like there’s wires in there that plug straight into his brain’s pleasure centres or whatever. If he wasn’t damn sure he’d come in mere seconds, he’s sure he wouldn’t be able to resist shoving the thing in further right the fuck now. But he waits, and tries to slow his breathing. And grins.

_Awesome._

***

“Hey, man,” he says, perching on the arm of his new co-star Zachary Quinto’s armchair in the _Trek_ set bullpen, “how come you never told me getting fucked in the ass was so phenomenally fucking wonderful?”

Zach coughs delicately and slides his half-eaten pastry back into its paper bag as if he’s tired of it, before carefully flicking crumbs off the bathrobe over his Spock costume. He seems to be lost for words, but Chris is too damn mellow right now for that to bother him. He just sits and happily chills with his buddy.

“Well,” Zach says at last, “wasn’t that a pretty invitation into a conversational minefield?”

Chris waves that away, slides down on the chair arm so he can bend his neck and rest his head on the chair back by Zach’s. “So, last night for some reason I decided to stick something, you know, up there while I jerked it. And _damn_ , I swear I now really, truly understand the meaning of ‘mind-blowing’.”

“Good for you,” Zach says blandly. “Why are you bothering me with this information?”

Chris blinks. “Because you’re, you know, sex-positive guy. And my bestest buddy on this here film set.”

“And queer as a lamé dollar bill?”

Chris jostles his shoulder. “Hadn’t noticed. Are you?”

Zach resumes, rather fussily, eating his pastry. Chris isn’t sure whether or not he’s getting the cold shoulder here, but he’s in the mood to look on the rosy side of life.

“So, you wanna come over to my place on the weekend if we get some time?”

“Will I be obliged to discuss, hear about, or otherwise have anything to do with your sex life?”

Chris laughs and slaps his thigh. “Nah, man. We can drink wine and watch sports if you prefer. Or a movie. Or… play Monopoly? Scrabble? Or we could hang out at your place and do, I dunno, hipster things. Wear stripes and smoke cigarillos or something.”

“Your place,” Zach says. “Definitely. That way I can leave if you start over-sharing about your asshole again.”

“You’re on,” Chris says, and sighs happily. He has a new friend beside him, and two new friends in little pouches in his underwear that make his bulge totally _bulge_ , man, and he’s playing Captain fucking Kirk. Life is fricken _excellent_.

***

_“…experts are still no closer to identifying the cause of the mysterious tentacle disease which has afflicted at least one hundred ten people across the continental United States in the last week. The authorities urge anyone who believes they may have contracted this disease to seek medical advice, but caution against panic. They remind us that as yet there are no harmful symptoms associated with the deformities, and that the disease does not appear to be contagious. Now over to our medical correspondent, Doctor R—”_

“Switch it off,” Zach says. “It’s like an exercise in some awful acting class: how to say ‘don’t panic’ in the most panic-inducing ways possible.”

Chris hits the remote and the TV blanks out. “I’m not panicking. Are you panicking?”

Zach polishes off his wine, sets the glass down on the nightstand, and relaxes back to sprawl on Chris’s bed. He steeples his hands over his chest and looks thoughtful. “Mainly, I’m wondering how exactly this got classed as a disease, where it came from, and what the tentacles themselves are good for.”

Chris chokes a bit on his Pinot Noir.

“I suppose we’ll find out through the magic of online porn whether they’re any use sexually,” Zach observes. “Probably well before the ‘experts’ bother to address such important questions.”

 _I could tell him,_ Chris thinks. _He’s an understanding guy._ “I, uh—”

“Of course, if it’s sexually transmitted—”

Chris huffs. “Wouldn’t they know that? I mean, can’t we believe them when they say it’s not contagious?”

Zach looks at him kinda funny. Well, Zach always looks kinda funny with those big hunks of eyebrows missing, but there’s also something stern in his expression right now. “Do you always believe what you hear on the news, Pine?”

 _Actually, I’m believing what my army of knife-happy physicians say, here._ “Funny,” he says, and pats Zach’s stomach. “So, um, what should we do now?” He smiles beguilingly. “Unless, you know, you’ve changed your mind about—?”

“Oh, all right,” Zach says, sighing theatrically. “You can tell me about your newfound erogenous zone, if you must. But only if you do it while snuggling.”

Ooh, a dare. Chris likes dares. “You wanna be big spoon or little spoon?”

Zach rolls his eyes. “Ordinarily, I’d say big spoon, but it seems like I’d run the risk of getting you all excited…”

Okay, it’s alarmingly possible that Chris is blushing right now. So, actually, putting his back to Zach sounds like a great idea. He puts down his wine glass and throws himself into the role of little spoon.

Zach mutters something, and then he’s moving, too, shifting into position against Chris’s back and, yeah, ass.

Chris wonders if having his dick in the general region of another guy’s ass will give Zach an uncontrollable woody.

He wonders whether Zach would notice if _he_ got an uncontrollable woody from the same dick-ass interaction.

He wonders if a straight man should really be thinking quite so much about Zach’s dick.

“I like snuggling,” Zach says, apparently to himself.

A warm arm drops around him, the hand coming to rest flat against his chest. Chris sighs in contentment, then hopes Zach didn’t hear it.

“Okay,” Zach says, sounding resigned. “So, who fucked your ass, or was this a strictly solo exploration?”

“Solo,” he replies promptly, voice oddly squeaky.

“Ah,” Zach says, more happily. “That’s right. I seem to recall something about ‘learning the meaning of mind-blowing’.”

“It was… so fucking intense. I’m almost afraid to try it again.”

The hand on his chest twitches. “Hmm,” Zach says.

“Are you—? Are you _nuzzling_ me?”

“No, I’m not,” Zach replies too promptly. “And some people are just wired that way. Ass-play for them is all fireworks and champagne and sobbing in pleasure. Other folks it’s just _nice_. Still others never really get any kind of real enjoyment out of it.”

Chris shivers and attempts to contain his curiosity. Fails promptly. “Which are you?”

There’s a long, strained silence during which he’s very aware of the warmth of Zach’s steady breaths on the back of his neck.

“I don’t get fucked often,” Zach confides at last. “But with the right person, I find it very… stimulating.” There’s an odd caramel-y sort of warmth in his voice there at the end that gives Chris very interesting mental pictures.

“Man, I wish I was gay.”

Zach somehow manages the impressive feat of physically withdrawing without actually moving at all. “I don’t appreciate your flippancy.”

“No, I just mean—well, girls can fuck me, I suppose, with the right accessories. But I gotta tell you, I’ve been looking differently at guys toting the real thing lately, totally checking dudes out. And now I have to try and grok whether that’s because of the ass thing or whether I, you know, secretly always leaned that way and didn’t know it, you know?”

Zach gives him a small, slow shake. “You’re over-complicating. If someone gets your dick hard, why should you care why? Make a pass, see what happens.”

“Thank you, fairy gaymother.” He gets a whack on the arm for that. “Ow. So, why don’t you get fucked much?”

Zach sighs. “Psychology. I need a real bastard of a top who can make me roll over, put my legs in the air. And it turns out I play one of those _much_ better than most of the guys I meet. So I get a lot of ass, and my own is woefully neglected.”

“Hmpfh,” Chris comments intelligently, as images of fucking Zach’s ass with one or both of his tentacles while Zach drills him into the mattress with his Quintossential Cock flood into his idiot brain. In their moist, snug little homes, his tentacles tingle excitedly. A little above them, his dick is waking up, too. “Um, this is getting a bit… yeah. I think I should maybe go now.”

“It’s your house.”

“Oh.”

Zach chuckles.

“You’re enjoying this,” Chris accuses sullenly.

“Enjoying your little queer freakout? Would I do that? For shame!”

“Your hand is totally on my ass right now.”

“Is it?” The said hand squeezes.

“Jerk.”

The hand pats his ass condescendingly. “Cute little baby bisexual.”

“If you start making cooing noises, so help me—”

“Relax, Pine. I’ll behave.”

“That’s what she said.”

Silence.

“I’ll go,” Zach says at last, sitting up. “Before you ask me to pluck the delicate flower of your manginity, or something equally embarrassing.”

Chris maybe kinda sorta pouts at that. “Too good for me, Mister Movie Star?”

Zach kisses his cheek. Loudly. “You’re adorable. I’m no good to drive, so I’ll pick up the car tomorrow some time, okay?”

“Okay,” Chris agrees. He still doesn’t want Zach to go, but he _is_ slightly mollified by that kiss.

***

Filming ends, but the friendship he’s built up with Zach endures, despite the occasional biting remarks about how _nice_ it must be to arrive at one’s Born Again Bisexuality at a time when one is handsome, famous, wealthy, and no longer living at home. Chris still hasn’t managed to find a way to tell him about that thing. Or the other thing. But they hang out, meet often to get coffee or walk Noah. They exchange allegedly-amusing text messages and the occasional mostly-sober phone call. The last time Chris got this close to a buddy, it took _years_.

One fine California day he finds himself at Zach’s place, sitting down to “watch some movie”, which turns out to be an advance copy of a certain little flick they're both in, which is missing a zillion special effects and which Zach almost certainly should not have. Can we say _awkward_?

But it’s actually kinda fun. Chris and Zach shed imaginary tears for Papa Kirk, dying just as new life enters the world like in the soap operas. They cheer for the kids who played the kiddie versions of their characters, because man, those tiny dudes nailed it. They comment enthusiastically and at length and as if they _know shit_ about technical matters like the editing, they laugh at Spock’s sweater and trade off-colour remarks about how hot Spock’s mom is, they celebrate Karl Urban’s daring in coming up with his own dialogue for the shuttle scene.

And then, somehow, it sneaks up on him. The Scene. The one where he had to make out with Rachel Nichols for hours while trying to keep all her green makeup on her and not on him so the takes would actually be usable and not a total nightmare in the grade. The one where the whole fucking world gets an eyeful of Chris Pine in his underwear. Well, Jim Kirk’s underwear. Whatever.

And Zach goes still as a gazelle on the plain and _stares_. “Jesus Christ, Pine, are you keeping _all_ your socks in there?”

Then he scrabbles for the remote.

And rewinds.

And _freeze-frames._

“Don’t wanna freak you out, man,” Chris warns, “but this is just possibly getting a bit creepy.”

Zach is still staring. So Chris stares at Zach, which seems slightly less weird than staring at his own crotch on the TV screen.

“Tell me that’s fake.”

“Huh?”

“Your package cannot be that big naturally.”

Chris rubs worriedly at the back of his neck. “Um…”

Zach’s head turns his way. He looks _dazed_ , man, like he’s seen the face of God. “Even if that’s mostly balls, you still must have _massive_ …” He looks down at Chris’s lap, then looks up again, blushing slightly. “I mean, did you get something _enhanced_ in there?”

Chris wishes he could sink his head right down into his torso, like a turtle hiding.

Zach raises a hand, pushes at his chest. “Tell me. Please. Spill. Explain this eighth wonder of the world.” He isn’t smiling. Has he completely flipped his lid?

Chris swallows. “Okay. I’ll tell you, but then we don’t talk about it, we just go on with our movie and be buddies and so on and so forth.”

“Deal,” Zach says, nodding eagerly.

For a moment, Chris just breathes. This is it. Moment of truth. First person he’s even thought about telling since the unpleasant necessity of the whole doctor-thing. “You know that tentacle thing that’s going around? Apparently I was one of the first patients.”

“You grew tentacles?”

“Yeah.”

Zach shifts his weight, obviously anxious. “You _still_ have tentacles?”

“Yeah.”

Silence. Well, almost.

“Hey, man,” Chris tries, “are you hyperventilating? Do you need a paper bag?”

Apparently, that’s enough to snap Zach out of his fugue state or whatever. “Fuck you, asshole,” he says, cheerfully, and fumbles the remote only briefly as he restarts the movie.

 _Well,_ Chris thinks, _that could have gone a whole lot worse._

***

Chris is mostly dressed, just giving his hair one last going over with the towel after a very nice interlude with the massaging shower head (yeah, he likes his creature comforts, so sue him) when his doorbell chimes. He pads barefoot down the hall to open the door.

There’s a shifty-eyed, turquoise-and-plaid-clad Zachary Quinto on his Christmas tree welcome mat. “Sorry,” he says, “did I disturb you?”

Chris is about to answer when he notices Zach’s gaze falling down his favourite faded Johnny Cash t-shirt to his crotch. Okay, so, yeah, he hasn’t got around to buttoning his jeans all the way up yet and his shiny silver boxers are on display a little bit. But, still, you’re not supposed to make it so obvious you’ve noticed. Are you? “Just got out of the shower, man,” Chris replies evenly. “Was there something you wanted? A beer? I’ve got beer.”

Zach’s head whips up. “Okay. Yeah. Cool. I mean, that would be lovely.” And he’s somehow past Chris and in the house before Chris has even finished moving out of the way. He even goes to rummage in the fridge for beer while Chris is doing up his jeans and then tossing the damp towel in the general direction of his bathroom.

Chris takes the offered bottle and leans back against the nearest counter.

“I, uh,” Zach says, and frowns. “I’ve been odious lately. To you. With regard to all matters sexual. I should have been more supportive. I’m sorry.”

Chris has to repeat this several times in the privacy of his own head before it begins to make sense. “I see,” he says, very carefully, because he doesn’t. Like, at all.

“I want to make it up to you. So, I’m here if you have questions or want advice about sex with men, or your sexual identity or, well, if you just want to vent. But, in the interests of full disclosure, lest I be accused of harbouring ulterior motives down the road, I need to tell you that I’m attracted to you and the thought that you have tentacles is just…” He makes a huge and crazy gesture with both hands. Fortunately, he hasn’t opened his drink yet, or it would have spilled. “Hot,” he finishes, in a weird croak, and looks adorably embarrassed that he couldn’t come up with a fifty-nine syllable word for “hot” at the drop of a hat.

Chris nods once and drinks. It seems by far the safest response just at the moment.

They sit on the back steps, staring down into Chris’s somewhat overgrown yard, not really drinking and not really talking, until Chris’s phone alerts him that he needs to be prepping to go someplace.

“This was nice,” he announces, bumping shoulders with Zach before rising. “I kinda like you contrite.”

Zach kicks his shin with his ridiculous pink argyle sneaker.

They’re good. Part of Chris breathes a huge sigh of relief. Other parts, hiding in his silvery boxer shorts, wriggle excitedly. Sometimes, he’d almost suspect they have minds of their own, chattering and scheming away down there. Whatever. Chris dismisses the fanciful thought and offers Zach a haul up.

***

Two months later, the media have taken to referring to the tentacle explosion as “an epidemic of delayed onset birth defects caused by unknown environmental factors”, and the subject is inevitably raised during any story about a suspected leak at a nuclear power plant, unhealthy level of mercury in a particular species of fish, possibly contaminated well in small-town Arkansas, or batshit pressure group claiming that inoculations cause autism or cellphone use exacerbates swine flu.

Tentacles have indeed been sighted in internet porn, as Zach predicted. But, based on comparison with his own tentacles, Chris strongly suspects that the grainy videos he’s seen are fake. For one thing, his tentacles have shown absolutely no sign of developing suckers, they’re still just smooth, flexible extrusions of flesh with a silky, moist pink covering. And he might have to rethink underwear scenes in future, because the things have got pretty damn big now and, frankly, he doesn’t always exactly, uh, _fit_ into off-the-shelf underwear anymore. But he’s not complaining, man. The things are long enough now that he can suck on the tips without having to contort himself into weird and wonderful positions. And that’s pretty damn exciting, he’s gotta say. Once, he actually came from sucking on one of his tentacles. Well, that and rubbing his dick against the mattress a bit. But it was mainly the tentacle thing, he’s sure. And he’s getting _really_ fucking good at fucking himself in the ass. He’s beginning to think he doesn’t need anyone else’s help in that area. Which is good, because he really can’t imagine getting up the courage to tell any new potential lovers about the tentacles any time soon.

Though there is Zach.

He’s really not sure what to do about Zach. It would be _so_ easy just to grab him, and kiss him, and… But this is one hell of a friendship to risk. And what if Zach’s only real interest in Chris lies in the bulging pouches on either side of his scrotum—and what if they get it on and Zach finds the tentacles disappointing, unable to match up to all his fantasies? Or what if the tentacles are awesome, and sex with Chris is awesome, but then someone in a white coat announces that the tentacles _are_ a disease and _are_ doing damage and _do_ have to be—it hurts just to think it—surgically removed?

Yeah, so indecision is something Chris is good at. What can he say? He’s multi-talented.

***

It’s Zach who eventually forces the issue. They’re drunk and they’re on their big global press tour and it’s all a huge fucking high and somehow this translates into Zach coming to Chris’s room at three o’clock in the morning—barely an hour after they got back to the hotel from their little _Trek_ cast Tokyo Karaoke adventure—and putting his tongue in Chris’s mouth.

“I’m _so_ drunk,” Zach says, afterwards, arms around Chris’s neck and still too, too close. He’s wearing neon yellow plaid flannel pyjama pants with a faded pink tank, and he would really be quite an eyeful even for the sober. “Couldn’t get it up if I tried. Thought you could show me what you keep in your pants and then we could fall asleep snuggling and wake up with bad hair and bad breath and panic briefly that we might have done it and forgotten.”

“Huh,” Chris says. “I think that’s the plot of a movie I saw once. Or possibly was in.”

“So what do you think of my plan?”

Chris shrugs. “I think we should probably close the door so we don’t give any innocent Japanese maids a heart attack.”

Zach giggles, nods several times, and goes to do just that.

Chris starts taking his pants off while Zach flits around, putting on the bedside lamp and switching off all the overhead lights. Then he throws himself at the big bed and bounces several times before looking expectantly up at Chris, who has just finished hopping, skipping, and stumbling through the extremely scientific process of taking off tight socks while sloshed.

“Show me,” Zach breathes, oddly reverent despite their genial mood of moments ago.

 _What the hey_ , Chris thinks. _Why not give him a show?_ So he lets his tentacles slip out, uses them to tug down the elastic of his nice, supportive tightie-whities.

Zach’s mouth is hanging open. Chris kicks off the underwear, then stands there, awkward, and lets his friend look as he retracts each tentacle before sliding it slowly out once more.

“I think I lied about not getting it up,” Zach says at last. “Up is being got.” He looks simultaneously pleased and apologetic.

“We’re too drunk for this,” Chris reminds him. He’s half hoping for disagreement. “Think I’ll go put on my PJs for our little slumber party.”

“Hmm,” Zach says, flopping face down onto the pillow. “You should have octopus PJs. Would be cute _and_ funny.”

The snuggling is good. Zach seems to be one of those people who puts out heat like a furnace, and Chris finds he is quite willing to fall asleep in those hairy arms.

Turns out Zach was quite right about the bed hair and the morning breath, but the less said about that, the better.

***

By the time they hit the tarmac back in LA, the whole cast thinks they’re dating.

“Who are we to argue?” Zach says.

But Chris doesn’t want it to be that easy, that casual. “Ask me out. No, seriously, ask me out.”

Zach takes a deep breath, though possibly he’s just gearing up to lift that enormous suitcase of his. “I’d love to take you out for dinner sometime. And then maybe a movie. Or, you know, fantastic sex. You game?”

Chris beams. “Totally.” He’s actually a little miffed that there’s no way they could possibly get away with walking out of the airport hand in hand.

***

An interviewer asks him whether he believes in the existence of alien life. Chris’s tentacles wriggle alarmingly, and he hurries to respond with a quick quote that he’s sure will get edited out of the article anyway.

_There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy._

***

Their first kiss isn’t perfect, but it’s promising. Which is good, because it feels like forever before they do anything more but make out and hump each other’s legs without ever actually getting off. But then one day they share _that_ look, and then Zach takes his hand and starts leading him towards his bedroom…

 _Gotta play a real mean bastard_ , Chris reminds himself during what feels like a ridiculously long walk. _Gotta make him roll over for me._ It can’t be about physical domination, they’re too closely matched for him to be able to rely on controlling Zach with brute strength. And if that was what Zach wanted, he wouldn’t be interested in guys like Chris anyway, would he? He’d be dating bodybuilders and gym bunnies and the like. No, it’s gotta be about attitude. Confidence. Giving orders and expecting them to be followed. Looking like he means business. And Chris can do that. First of all, he’s an actor. Second, he really fucking wants to get his dick in Zach tonight. That’s some serious motivation right there.

As soon as the bedroom door’s safely closed between them and Noah, Chris shoves Zach against it and kisses him, hard and fierce, fingers already scrabbling at clothes.

Skinny jeans are fucking _impossible,_ man, so he breaks the kiss to demand “Clothes. Off. Now,” in the growliest, nastiest tone he can manage.

Zach makes a happy little sound in the back of his throat and gets to work undressing, his dark gaze never leaving Chris’s face.

It takes Chris all of three seconds to let his tentacles free to help strip off his own clothing. “Wanna fuck you,” he growls, by way of commentary. “You gonna be good and take it?

Zach whimpers like Chris just stroked his _dick_ or something, and Chris tries his best not to appear too smug. Yeah, this is gonna work. This is so gonna work. He is awesome. He can totally do this. Okay, so he kinda almost trips over his own pants leg at one point, but it’s all about the recovery, right? And his recovery is _graceful_ , man, complete with sexy Blue Steel glare.

Pushing Zachary Quinto down onto the bed and climbing on top of him, it turns out, will do fucking _wonders_ for a man’s confidence. Chris has to fight a crazy grin as he leans down to claim the first rough kiss from his newly-superior position. His tentacles squirm out to roam, excited at the prospect of having Zach all spread out before them.

“So damn hot,” Chris breathes against Zach’s mouth, his jaw. Nips his way down to stubbly throat. “Kinda makes me greedy.”

Zach’s hips roll up, apparently without permission, and they both groan at the friction of cocks, not quite lined up but pleasant all the same. “Be greedy, then,” Zach growls. “Take what you—” His mouth falls open in a silent O, which is about when Chris realises that one of his tentacles is gently exploring the shape and weight of Zach’s ballsack.

Zach retaliates with both hands on Chris’s ass, squeezing maddeningly slow, and it all somehow escalates from there until ‘get lube, supplies’ is the only remotely meaningful thought Chris has left and even that threatens to crumble into meaningless syllables when Zach bites down hard on his lower lip like he wants to draw blood.

“Fuck,” Chris says intelligently, and scrambles up to find the stuff right the fuck _now_.

It doesn’t take long, preparing Zach. Or possibly Chris rushes it. Whatever, it’s not like he’s an expert. He does the fingers thing, works him open until Zach starts making impatient noises. Then he slicks on the rubber, applies just a touch more lube, demands Zach put his legs over his shoulders (hooray for yoga, because he totally does, like it’s nothing), and pushes slowly but inexorably in. Tight, hot, sweet, so sweet. Zach just magically relaxes and lets him _in_.

Well, _fuck_. He pays out ten thrusts, delicious, perfect friction, each one drawing the most wonderful sounds from Zach, and knows he’s not going to make it through ten more. So he makes those count, makes them hard and deep and tries to angle upwards like he’s read about. But all to no avail, because suddenly he’s coming hard enough to blot the whole world out in white like a heated blizzard, and when he finally surfaces again, struggling to rein in his panting breaths, Zach’s still hard and staring at him, waiting.

There’s only one thing for it, obviously, so once he’s pulled gently out and disposed of the condom, Chris dives tongue first for Zach’s cock. Which is actually not totally gross. In fact, it’s kinda—

“Oh, god, Chris,” Zach moans, head already thrashing on the pillows.

Okay, so yeah, he likes this. Whatever. He’ll unpack it all later, work out What It Means. Right now—

Right now tentacle number one seems to be asking his permission to push into Zach’s asshole. And Chris? Sees no particular reason to say no. And the way Zach grunts, the thumping noises as he apparently knocks something over in his flailing attempts to find something to hold onto, kinda make it all extra fucking awesome.

He is Chris Pine.

He is fellating, and tentacle fucking, Zachary Quinto.

Life simply does not get better than this. It’s not possible.

“More,” Zach whines, “oh, god, Chris, _more_.”

We-l-l-l-l, he _does_ have two…

Afterwards, it requires a great deal of lounging and cuddling to restore their lost powers of speech.

“That,” Zach observes at last, “is no disease. That is a gift from some passing trickster-god or something.”

Chris smiles smugly, too drained to trouble himself to parse that out beyond the part where Zach seemed to be calling him god’s gift. “Uh hum.”

***

So, um, yeah. Chris likes doing the whole gay thing with Zach. It feels a little naughty, which admittedly starts a few minor mental warning bells ringing for the child of a therapist, but mainly it just feels easy, natural, right. Good. Accordingly, he tries to find a way to tell Zach they should make this, like, permanent and shit. Instead, he ends up making moony eyes and mumbling something about exclusive ass-rights.

Zach seems to get it, though. He’s just awesome that way.

***

“I wish there was a mirror on the ceiling,” Chris says, the first time Zach lubes them up and makes him take it. He slides his hands down Zach’s flexing back, grabs his buttocks and parts them gently. “Then I could see to tentacle-fuck your ass while I get the deep dicking.”

Zach’s strokes falter. “Oh, god, tell me more,” he says, suddenly kinda breathless.

But it’s hard to think of more to tell him when Zach alters his angle and, oh, man, this has to be at least the ninth best thing in the history of _ever_. He is definitely, truly, absolutely fucking bisexual, okay? Zachary Quinto is fucking him and there is just no damn room for doubt. And then Zach moves them, going up on his knees somehow so that Chris has all his weight suddenly on his upper back and shoulders and Zach’s too far away to kiss easily but he’s getting _so_ deep and it’s _so_ right and, yeah, he’s probably going to be a bit slutty for cock for the rest of his life. Listen to him not complain.

Chris sends his tentacles into the gap between their bodies so he can search out a hair-wreathed nipple with one and curl the other around his own dick for some very welcome extra stimulation. Zach looks down at the tentacle caressing his chest and swears in adorable gruff baritone. Chris is somehow still snickering when he comes.

***

“You know,” Chris says, in his very best actorly deadpan, looking up from his cheesy tabloid magazine, “I think they might have something here.”

Zach puts down his danish and seizes the magazine. The changing expressions on his face as he reads the article so expressively titled _TENTACLE EPIDEMIC: ALL PART OF FIENDISH ALIEN INVASION PLOT?!?_ are eight kinds of hilarious, Chris counts.

When Zach finishes the article, he wipes his face clean of everything but an unconvincing expression of great patience. “In what way,” he inquires blandly, as he shuts the magazine and places it in the centre of the cafe table, face down, so that it displays a wonderfully garish ad for ‘breast enhancement’ pills, “do you think they might have something?”

Chris sips his coffee while he orders his words. “Well, imagine you’re a member of some handsomely tentacled alien race. You locate the Earth, and you’d like to pay a visit to learn about us, only you don’t want us to freak out and fire all the world’s intercontinental ballistic missiles at the field where your flagship flying saucer lands, right? And from your perusal of the radio and TV signals we’ve been beaming into space for a century you think that maybe might be something we _would_ do. So, you could attempt to go through tiresome diplomatic channels, but how do you know you can trust us, and how do you choose which government you make first contact with? Seems like a very time-consuming way to go just to get permission to come here and find out if we’re worth knowing. You could do what those Reticulan guys do, and come here in the dead of night to beam up random rednecks from their beds and conduct suspiciously ass-focused investigations of our biology. But that’s kind of rapey, and you don’t want to give tentacled creatures everywhere a bad name. So what do you do?”

Chris pauses to sip his coffee, checks that the patiently listening expression is still pasted onto Zach’s face. Check.

“Here’s what I’d do: make a quick recon with my cloaking device on to gather the necessary information about what humans look and smell like and how they move and so forth. So I can properly disguise myself as one. But probably the best seamstress in the universe can’t make my handsome nine-foot-tall tentacled self look like a handsome six-foot-tall Californian. So I have my minions down in the science department develop a retrovirus that will genetically alter myself and my staff of handsome tentacled volunteers so that—temporarily—our bodies are reconfigured to look human, to _be_ human, in all the important respects. And, obviously, when we’re done here, we’ll need—”

“A second retrovirus to reverse the effects of the first,” Zach puts in.

Chris beams and waves a finger in a way that’s probably obnoxious, but if Zach won’t tolerate him being obnoxious now and then Chris isn’t sure what the point of having a zen-like, yoga-practicing, uber-tolerant boyfriend actually _is_. “Exactamondo, my friend. Now, supposing a few random passing humans got accidentally exposed to the second retrovirus while the aliens were restoring their bodies to their former tentacled glory? Perhaps it’s not entirely compatible with human DNA or whatever, but it can have a good college _try_ at applying a healthy dose of tentacle, right?”

“So you, Chris Pine, are in fact proof of the existence of alien life? And in your shorts is proof that there is, in fact, such a thing as _intelligent_ life, even if it doesn’t actually live here on Earth?”

Chris would show him the back of his favourite finger, but they’re outside and in public and some dumbass with a camera might snap a photo and then his people will yell and weep and rail at him and he’ll feel guilty enough that he’ll have to buy them all flowers.

***

Filming for _Trek 2_ is on them faster than Chris can almost believe. But his life is good, man. He’s ready.

The tentacles have stopped growing, Chris is sure. It’s a relief; he thought the pouches might end up as big as tennis balls, baseballs, basketballs. But it’s not quite that bad. He suspects that a lot of each tentacle’s length is actually stored internally somehow, but he doesn’t like to give that too much thought while he’s, you know, not stoned out of his freaking skull. He’s happy to be equipped with these babies now, but he’s really pretty satisfied with the amount of unsolicited body modification that’s gone on here and would probably freak the fuck out if anything else happened down there. Or if he had to face up to the actual facts—not that anyone seems to be sure of those yet—of _how_ it had happened. A big-name pastor down South is of the opinion that all these tentacles are signs of the Rapture falling due. An anti-big-government think-tank claims it’s proof that the army and its socialist hospitals have been experimenting on American citizens for decades (quite how this is supposed to explain the prevalence of brand new tentacles on people in other countries Chris isn’t sure). The Scientologists insist they know all about it, but refuse to discuss it with non-members. The medical profession seems to be a ways off reaching any kind of consensus.

The only two people Chris has heard of—through his umpteen doctors who are always trying to persuade him to come in for more tests, free of charge, it’s for science, Mister Pine—who went and had their tentacles (ugh) excised apparently went crazy as a result so, yeah, he’s pretty happy with his decision there.

And Zach? Zach has not tired of the tentacles, oh, no. Chris sometimes thinks it’s his tentacles Zach’s in love with. But, meh, he’s inclined to take Zach’s own advice and not care _why_ Zach’s committed to this relationship, as long as he is.

Just now, as he’s pinning his lover to the bed with a growl, because Zach likes the displays of assumed dominance when he’s gonna get fucked, Chris is very much of the opinion that whatever brought this into his life? Is fucking _magic_. He sends a tentacle off to grab a condom from the nightstand, then back again for lube. Zach makes a tiny sound, his tongue darts out to moisten his lips, and his legs fall unsubtly wide open.

“I’m gonna fuck you hard until I come,” Chris informs him lazily. “Then I’m gonna let my tentacles have their way with you until you fall apart.”

Zach moans in helpless longing.

Chris beams.

Life with tentacles is _awesome_.

***

Twelve Festivals of the Esteemed Goddess of Light after their return to the familiar polished stone palace of Yon, Neet is still grounded and still forbidden from accessing the gene labs. Colonel Teev (“do NOT call me parent in front of my troops. It’s embarrassing!”) refuses to entertain further discussion of the matter.

It isn’t _fair_.

It’s not like it was a deliberate attempt to destabilise her parent’s position in the hierarchy during a difficult mission. It’s just that it really wasn’t fun being the only kid dragged along with all the soldiers to that algae-coloured planet the natives knew by various names, the ones Neet can remember being Earth, World, Globe, Papatuanuku, and the rather prosaic _Home_. Whatever you call it, fact is there really hadn’t been much going on there for a non-soldier, non-white-coat to _do_ for sixteen cycles while Important Intelligence was being non-destructively gathered.

So she’d prettified the ape-lings a little. Not a big deal. It wasn’t like she’d spray-painted “Neet was here” across their pathetic excuse for a space station, or revealed herself to a weak-minded group in the hopes of having a religion formed around her involving much presentation of their _delicious_ mammalian-body-fluid-derived “cheddar cheese” to her divine tentacled personage. It wasn’t even _all_ the ape-lings she’d improved, barely a tenth of one percent. Still, the Colonel calls it vandalism and _takes a very dim view of such things, young lady_ , so Neet guesses it’s going to be a while before she’s dragged on any boring missions to primitive far-flung planets again.

Which is _fantastic_. Add to this the fact that some of her own personal appendage-related genes will continue to be born into future generations of World’s ape-lings, perhaps forever, and it’s actually starting to seem like a pretty damn productive trip, in retrospect. Possibly even worth the grounding which, after all, is for a short period only, and does allow her a lot of time to update her journal with ideas about how she might one day be considered the ancestral mother of a whole new species of ape-derived Globe-dwellers possessing the splendid adaptation of extra grasping limbs…

Neet doesn’t smile, but several of her more sensitive tentacles twitch happily. _Suck it, Dad. Your kid is_ awesome.

***END***


End file.
